Hope Shall Fade
by Telturwen
Summary: Retaking Osgiliath may be a simple request for the Steward of Gondor, but the consequences affect the whole of the city and the people who were silent are now heard.


**Disclaimer: **Tolkien's work inspired me to write for supporting characters who were not mentioned in the books but undoubedly had something to add to the _Lord of the Rings_. Those characters are usually the voice of the people, and although we have a lot of voices to express the heroes and heroines of the story, we don't get the voice of the general public very often. I simply give them a name and a voice to express themselves. Thank you for all the rest, Tolkien.**  
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**Author's Note: **This was the first story that I posted on back in 2006. I was very proud of it at the time, but looking back on it now I was ashamed and knew I could do so much better. This is the first re-write of that fiction, and it has much more detail and, I think, a better ending as well. As a reader of this tragic story, we know that Aragorn will sit on the throne of Gondor at the end of the war, and we also know that Denethor gets his, so we can glean hope out of this hopeless situation for Mithiel. And if you care to know, the name _Dínedor_ is, from what I can tell, Sindarin for "silent brother." I thought it appropriate, seeing as he is silent to his sister about his true feelings about riding out to Osgiliath. Please enjoy!

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><p><strong>Hope Shall Fade<strong>

A set of pale gray clouds swept across the skies over Minas Tirith. A storm was approaching and yet the Steward, from the dark corners of the White Tower where he could cower in dignity, could not see it. Osgiliath was ordered to be retaken at whatever cost. The man's foolish sense of pride would not stay its hand. He was the ruler of the Gondorian people, and for all his long years in that position with one pivotal choice he would lead them to slaughter.

Dínedor, a proud soldier of Gondor, grabbed the steel gauntlets from amongst the armour he had yet to put on. They felt heavy in his hands, weighing down his upper half as he strapped them onto his forearms. He reached next for his breastplate, but he stopped; he stared at the White Tree crest etched in the plate. To die for ones' country... An honour. A privilege. A mistake. What good would come from this attack? He swore viciously under his breath. If Lord Boromir were here, he would have prevented this imprudence. The Steward was entangled in grief, and the Guard was well aware of the questionable decisions his mourning had caused him to make.

They were vastly outnumbered. The company to which Lord Faramir had been assigned was not enough to hold back the approaching darkness, slowly creeping its way into the Pelannor Fields and westward still. Dínedor had the misfortune of being assigned to the same company, which would fall before the moon rose tonight.

Hearing a noise at the door, he turned about to face his lovely sister, Mithiel. She was dressed in a sea-blue gown that swept the floor, though even with its lustrous colour could not bring light to her grave face. He gave her a faint smile, all he could manage, but she would not return it. Instead, she walked toward him and hesitating only a moment wrapped her arms about him, uncaring of the cold embrace his chainmail returned.

Dínedor rested his hands on her shoulders and laid his cheek on the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her. How he would miss the fragrance of lavender and rosemary, mingled with a slight whiff of wet soil. Her toils in her herb garden never failed to amaze him, and it was not for the beauty but the dedication she held. Had they more soldiers in their company that shared her disposition, they might stand a day longer on the field of battle.

"Please," she implored softly into his chainmail. "You mustn't go."

He did not pull away; he did not want to. He wished to stay in that moment, that embrace, until the war was over and the world thrived or fell. In such a moment, all thoughts of glory and honour stand aside, and only love remains. What would happen to her once he was gone? Who would protect her from the evil that would triumph?

And if the forces of Osgiliath were to attack, what then? A moment of clarity came to him and the embrace, with the moment, ended. A pressing need enveloped him. If the company did not march on Osgiliath, any allies that might come to their aid would be too late. Their small force could do little against such an outpost, but it might grant them some time as they regroup. A worthy sacrifice. Perhaps even an honourable sacrifice.

He was content to die, as long as he knew his death had aided the fight, and that his sister had a chance of surviving the war.

He pulled away, holding her fast by the shoulders, and brought his lips to her forehead. Looking down at her tear-streaked face, he smiled in earnest. She was taken aback to see such an expression on her brother's face.

"Mithiel," he said, soft but surely. "I am duty-bound to protect our home, to protect _you_. I ride out tonight, and whether I face glory or a glorious death is not mine to decide, but I promise you this: I will do everything in my power to come back to you."

The luminous tears fell freely from her cheeks, wetting the flagstone one drop at a time. "On a horse or a litter?"

"Come now," he said, pulling her close again. "I see a future for you, sister. When the war is over, Gondor will rise up in splendor as it was before when the great kings ruled. Orcs will tremble at the very sight of the White Tower, and Barag-dur will be nothing more than a dimming memory. I will return home, Mithiel. You will not be alone."

A comforting lie was easier to tell than a grief-ridden truth, thus he assured her, and his soft voice calmed her racing heart. Mithiel closed her eyes and embraced him tightly one last time. When she stepped back, her expression was tranquil, and a small smile came to her lips.

"This is not good-bye," she told him.

Dínedor nodded, and turned back to his armour, strapping on his breast and back plate. When he turned to pick up his helmet, Mithiel stood with it in her outstretched hands.

"Not good-bye," he echoed as he grasped the helmet, and bent down to kiss the top of her head.

...

The silence in the street was deafening, the only noise horse shoes clicking against flagstone and the escaped sobs of wives and lovers. No wishes of victory or safe return to be heard, just the ever-present silence of a crowd too heartbroken to manage a simple fare thee well. All knew what fate that awaited them on the other side of Minas Tirith's gate, and it would be a lie to express otherwise.

As the company rode past, Mithiel made her way to the edge of the crowd and searched for her brother in the band of soldiers. A pair of fair blue eyes caught her own, and she gazed at the smile Dínedor held with a hope rekindled. She ignored the sobs of those around her who had let their hope fade and smiled back at her brother proudly.

When the company reached the lower level, the gates of the city were pulled open, and the Men of Gondor rode out into the Pelannor Fields, not daring to look back on what they had left behind.

...

When the gates opened again that evening, a single horse walked through carrying one wounded man, and though all Mithiel's heart wished it to be so, that man was not her brother. The words none survived spread through the city like a quick-flowing stream, and the night brought a host of mourners to their knees in grief for the fallen.

Upon the stair leading up to the quarters of a soldier of Gondor, Mithiel sat on the cold stone steps, her gown askew and her cheeks stained with the trail of dry tears. Her brother's voice, soft and caring, echoed through her mind.

_You will not be alone._

She pulled the sleeve of her gown to her face and wiped the stinging tears away. She did not feel alone; she had been visited by a handful concerned neighboring women who had not lost their husbands or sons to a futile cause. They brought herb tea and warm food as if it would help to ease the sorrow she felt. No, she did not feel alone. She felt empty.

Even were they to survive this war, it would be to live under the rule of a arrogant, tactless leader, and such a thing would surely destroy her. The fire in her eyes died out with a soft hiss, and she lay down on the stone steps of the abode of a warrior whose name was already forgotten. With a sigh, her hope was gone and the memory of her brother's smile faded with it.


End file.
